


Rouge

by SimplyTaboo



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: All of these problems could be fixed by an honest discussion about their emotions, Depression, F/M, Gender Roles, Lack of Communication, Loneliness, M/M, Peggy Carter's super power is internalizing her pain, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Regret, This isn't how you do polyam Steve, Unresolved Emotional Tension, broken polyamory, but it's the 1940's and people don't do that, you're doing it wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 05:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyTaboo/pseuds/SimplyTaboo
Summary: Peggy Carter is not adjusting to her new life all that well.





	Rouge

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Endgame fic because every action has consequences. 
> 
> Just like every fanfiction, all of these problems could be solved by honest and open communication, but it's the 1940's and Peggy Carter doesn't cry in front of anyone.

Peggy always took pride in her appearance. It was just the way she was raised, always looked her best. People took her more seriously that way. Her hair was always coiffed and her lipstick expertly applied with brush and skill instead of just the blunted tip, always elegantly accepting the pursed M of her cupid’s bow.

One day, Peggy Carter stopped wearing rouge. She wasn’t sure it was a conscious decision. She was just sitting in front of her vanity one morning, the room empty all but her, and she stared down at the red cream and just...screwed the cap on and put it away. The subtle, near innocent blushed look she replicated with it wasn’t on her list that day.

Who was she trying to impress?

It had been about six months since her life had been shattered into a million sparkling, dazzling pieces. Six months since the love of her life had appeared at her doorstep, back from the dead, carrying roses and an apology. Six months since Steve Rogers, older and wearier, knocked on her door with stories of the future and the end of the world and ripped the world apart to get back to her. In an equally unlikely situation, she and Steve had gone on a wild goose chase to rescue James Buchanan Barnes, KIA, from HYDRA. It was illogical, but she had listened as Steve crashed himself into the frozen ocean to save millions of lives, and now he was with her, just as illogical. Almost every waking moment for those first few months were spent searching and traveling, deciphering clues and hunting down monsters.

He’d proposed to her while they searched, in a small cramped hotel room just outside of London right after they’d gotten their last bit of clue to get to James. It was dangerous, he told her, it could be deadly, and he didn’t come back all this way to die not being her husband. They’d had a small wedding, hasty and in their gear in front of the Thames. Steve complained the whole way, about how she deserved a better wedding and a dress and a ring made of something that sparkled nicer. She couldn’t care less.  

Two days later, they finally found James, chained like a dog, battered, beaten, but still hopeful. Those blue eyes locked on Steve, and the poor bastard let out a sob of relief. He must be dead, he’d said. He must finally be dead, if he was seeing his Stevie again.

Peggy didn’t hold it against him when he pressed his lips against Steve’s, still sobbing and happy, delirious. She held it against Steve a little when he kissed back. It wasn’t as if Steve hadn’t been forward with his intentions. He sat her down and explained it before he proposed, he’d made his feelings on the subject of James clear. It took a little getting used to, accepting that not only was Steve bent just a bit, and Barnes as well, but that he wanted both of them. Apparently the future was a more open place than she’d ever given much thought to.

And, well, this wasn’t exactly Peggy’s first rodeo with two men, she was just more used to being in the middle of it, instead of on the periphery. She wasn’t going to risk losing Steve again over this.

James, the poor bastard, was traumatized. Worse than shell shock. They brought the pieces of Sergeant Barnes home, cradled in blankets and Steve’s arms on one of Howard’s planes. Peggy wouldn’t say she was anything more than impressed with how delicately and expertly Steve helped put the man back together over the following months. She was just woefully unimpressed with her inability to compare.

Their disinterest to having her around stung.

Really, it shouldn’t bother her so much. It shouldn’t weigh on her that the man who was enthralling her husband with his bright blue eyes and sideways smiles wasn’t interested in her. It shouldn’t dig between her ribs to see Steve look at James with the same loving expression he had when he’d looked at her in front of the Thames in the dying sunlight. It shouldn’t sting when her attempts at flirtation went politely rebuffed, but it did.

They had the same stamina as one another, she told herself. They had desires and needs that she couldn’t keep up with, and it wasn’t that she was at fault, she was just human. It wasn’t that Steve didn’t want her, she just couldn’t give him everything he needed.

James made himself very clear that he didn’t want her, and she told herself that was fine.

_Chin up, Carter, you agreed to this._

\--

Every morning she had the same routine; She woke early, cooked a simple breakfast, brewed fresh coffee, and set the plates and mugs at a table for three. James almost always stirred first, and she’d finish her coffee, moving to straighten her clothes and leave for the day. Work kept her busy, busy kept her out of the apartment.

“Where’s the fire, Carter?” He joked one morning, breaking their usual silent routine. Sleep kept his voice heavy as he moved to his usual seat, across from where she’d been, pouring a cup of coffee and relishing in the scent before draining it.

“I’ll be back to make dinner,” she responded, a flurry of movements as she gathered her things. He chanced a glance to her one brow quirked as she rustled around.

Steve appeared shortly after, groggy and smiling as she made her way to the door. James interrupting her routine made her drag just enough to bump into her husband.

“Good morning,” he smiled, hand moving to her waist and leaning down. Peggy turned her head at the last moment, letting his kiss fall to her cheek.

“I just put on lipstick,” she explained, pulling out of Steve’s grasp, “and I’m in a rush. I’ll be back to make dinner, breakfast is on the table.”

“Whoa, Peg, where’s the-” she was out the door before Steve could finish. “...fire.”

She heard the faint muffle of, “That’s what I said,” from behind the door.

\--

It continued like that. She’d wake up, get dressed, unscrew the cap to her rouge, look at it, screw it back on and put it away. She’d make breakfast, set the table, drink her coffee, nibble her toast, and rush out the door before Steve could really talk to her. More kisses dodged to cheeks in the last weeks than in her entire life.

Eventually it wasn’t just the rouge. She stopped wearing mascara, stopped curling her lashes out, her hair meticulous but not nearly as extravagant as she usually wore it, a simple bun at the nape of her neck. Even her nightly routine was more distant. Steve’s strong hand would reach out to her, grab at the dip in her waist as he moved to kiss her neck, and she’d gently pull away. She had work in the morning, she’d say. She had a headache. She was tired.

Peggy didn’t mean to be frigid, and it wasn’t like she didn’t want Steve with every fiber of her being. His touch still made her skin flushed, made her body ache,  but it felt like such a formality. Her desires for him were an inconvenience, almost like a pity taken for her sake. It was pretty clear that she couldn’t meet his needs, and everytime he snuck from her bed when he thought she was asleep to crawl into James’ she felt like more of a failure. She just couldn’t keep up. Peggy knew she should, as her mother put it, lie back and think of England. She should do her wifely duty, but the thought of Steve moving over her just to hurry up and take himself to the bed next door that he really wanted to be in, she wasn’t strong enough for that.

So, she tried to put on her best face through this life. She tried to be normal as she made their breakfasts, did their laundry, and made any excuse to be at work as often as she could.

She’d agreed to this, so she had to keep it up.

_Stiff upper lip, Peggy._

\--

“You sick, Carter?” Of all the people, it was Thompson who decided to comment. Peggy looked up from the paperwork on her desk, frowning at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You look pale. And dull. Your makeup is usually applied better. You sick?” Peggy hardly thought powder and lipstick was poorly applied.

“I wasn’t aware my makeup was huge topic of your attention.”

“It isn’t, you just look off,” he said with a shrug. “Women usually don’t let themselves out of the house like that unless they’re sick.”

“I’m perfectly healthy, Director,” she said through her teeth. “And the last time I checked, my makeup wasn’t a requirement to do my job, so if you’ll leave me to my work, it would be appreciated.”

Thompson, at least, had the good graces to look a little frightened as he raised his hands in defeat and left her be.

\--

“...what do you mean, ‘you’re not having sex?’”

Peggy paused at the door to the apartment, overhearing James speaking on the other side. After Thompson, she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to overhear the rest of this conversation, but eavesdropping was a professional hazard.

“I mean, I don’t think she wants me anymore, Buck.” The exasperation in Steve’s voice made her brows knit together. “She’s just so distant.”

“Course she wants you, Steve, you two are like a fairytale,” She could hear the smile in James’ voice, trying to comfort, trying to lie. He wasn’t a bad liar, like Steve, but she could still tell.

“It’s different. And I don’t know what to do about it,” there was a scrape, the sound of a chair across linoleum. It was like she could hear their closeness, and she made a point to make noise with her key in the lock, rustling the paper bag of groceries she had on her hip.

“I’m home,” She called, kicking off her shoes like she did every day. They weren’t touching when she got to the kitchen, just smiling up at her with the same smiles they did every day, Steve all open eyes and love, and James with a strange kind of respect that didn’t reach the rest of his body. “I’ll get dinner started.”

\--

Peggy knew what she had to do, knew how she had to do it. She did her makeup with the same meticulous perfection that she used to, she let her hair fall in delicate waves, free of bobby pins, and she wore the same silk slip she had under her clothes when they’d hastily gotten married in front of the Thames. It was a practical, creamy satin with just a touch of lace to accent it. Steve had run his fingers over the fabric so lovingly, like the feel of it was comforting, before wrapping his arms around her.

She laid herself out on their bed, a book she wasn’t really reading propped in her hand, making sure the line of her body was alluring. She didn’t have to pretend very long, Steve walking in and glancing up at her with mild surprise.

“Peg, I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“I decided to wait for you,” her voice was molten honey, and she leaned to put the book on the nightstand. “Am I not allowed to wait up for my husband?”

He was on her in an instant, a flurry of hands and kisses and sweet murmured nothings. When she pinned him to the mattress, flicking off the light on the night table, she almost felt triumphant. When she took him inside her and moved until her body ached, pushed herself past any fathomable thought of her own desire, all focus on Steve, she felt like maybe she could do this.

She had to. She loved him.

Peggy kept going, pushing and pulling herself, thighs quaking and breasts heaving. Steve’s hands roamed every inch of her body, and she put up no resistance, letting him touch and kiss and suck on anything he wanted. She was showing him she could do this, could give him what he wanted, what he needed. She was his, he could take her. Her body ached, muscles wanting to give out, but she kept moving. She couldn’t fail at this.

When he came he moaned her name, he mumbled his love against the flesh of her breast and Peggy wished she could bottle that moment, wrapped around him and sweating, where he was hers. They fell asleep in each other’s arms and Peggy realized she hadn’t felt content like this in weeks, even if she didn’t come. She’d gladly never come again if it meant she could have this.

She woke when he left the bed an hour later, gently closing the door behind him. She stared at the wall, feeling numb as she heard the muffled voices and gasps from the room nextdoor.

She tried not to cry when she heard the familiar, rhythmic creak of bed springs.

_You agreed to this._

_\--_

Sleep was not something Peggy could do, not while she was staring at the wall the separated her room from Steve and James, who had been at it for at least an hour. She’d given in and cried for a bit, quiet and curled into a ball, but the pity party was over.

She’d failed, and that was just something she’d have to face. She brushed the tears from her cheeks, standing from her bed. Habit made her quiet as she could be as she went and cleaned herself up, pulling her dressing gown over her shoulders. Not that she needed to be quiet, not with how occupied they were. She opted to sit and go over some files from her job at the kitchen table. Her room still smelled like her and Steve, and at least in the kitchen she could crack the window and hear the sounds of the city to drown out the activity down the hall.

It worked, she managed to distract herself enough that it seemed to fade away. She could pour herself into her work and forget for a little bit. She was so into it that she didn’t hear the door open down the hall, or the sound of someone walking towards her.

“Why are you up?” Peggy jumped, nearly stabbing her palm with the pen she was toying with, whipping around to see James leaning against the door frame, calm as anything. He was shirtless, just wearing pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips, and his arms were crossed over his chest. The left arm, shining and metal, shone in the dim light of the kitchen.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, turning back to her work. James came and sat at the table and she couldn’t help but notice that he smelled like Steve, like sweat and sex, and she stared harder at her paperwork.

“...Carter,” he said, and those bright blue eyes were watching her. Too close, like he could see through her. Peggy had been trained to not be seen through, she was getting sloppy. God, and his face was so open and worried that it made her want to slap him a little.

“Please don’t look at me like that. I don’t need it.”

“You were crying.” She couldn’t say anything to that. She was tired, it was late, and she could barely keep herself together as it was.

“I don’t need your pity,” She said, and her own voice didn’t sound as strong as it usually did. How could he, how could he look at her with those blue eyes and lips still bruised from kissing every part of Steve and ask about her tears.

“‘S not pity,” James replied, brows knitting together. “I’m worried about you. So is Steve.”

“I’m fine.” She didn’t believe herself. “It’s fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been off lately, and pale-”

“For the love of God!” Peggy almost felt catapulted out of herself, like she was watching her body move to scream and shake at James Buchanan Barnes, as if this was all his fault. She couldn’t stop it. “I am not pale! I stopped wearing rouge! That’s all it was, red paint that I put on my cheeks! This is what I look like!” Her hands throbbed, down to her fingertips, like she could feel every ounce of anguish pulsing through her veins. "This is just what I look like!"

“Peggy-”

“This is just who I am! I know it’s not good enough, I am very aware!” She was shaking, she was vaguely aware. Her eyes felt wet.

_Don’t cry, Carter. Get it together._

Hands clasped on her shoulders, one metal and one warm flesh, and her eyes flicked up at James. God, he looked so worried and so caring and she wanted to punch him. But, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault, none of this was, really. It was just the way it was. It wasn't his fault she wasn't good enough.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blinking back tears. “It’s late, I’m tired. It’s fine.”

“You say that a lot,” he said, not letting go of her shoulders. “I’m not sure you believe it.”

“Leave it, James.”

He, at least, had the good graces to do so.


End file.
